


Vogue

by immistermercury



Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Flirting, Fluff, I'm all over the place kids, M/M, Slow Burn, Soft Boys, a lot of cats, another NYC fic, freddie is a professional artist who wants a roommate, freddie is going to introduce him to the world, i don't make the rules they're just cute, jim is a budding photographer who needs a room, jim's got a break for vogue, just soft tbh, lowkey but it's there, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29512764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immistermercury/pseuds/immistermercury
Summary: “You know fucking everyone.” Jim sighed. “Does anyone need a roommate? I need- fucking hell, I need something in Manhattan, but I haven’t got two dimes to put towards it.”Brian chuckled, and Jim could hear the warmth of the cigarette between his lips. “You’re right, I do know everyone.” He grinned. “And I might have something for you.”Jim paused in his tracks. “You do?”Brian grinned. “How much do you like cats?”“As much as I have to.” He said breathlessly.“I’m friends with an artist.” He said simply. “Batshit fucking insane. He’s got an apartment down in Chelsea, on the corner of West 23rd and 8th Avenue, and I think he’s got a penthouse room he rents for cheap. He mostly does it for the company.”“Can I have his name?” He asked hopefully. “And number?”“Sure. It’s Freddie Mercury.”
Relationships: Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Series: Jim and Fred in NYC [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2168016
Comments: 29
Kudos: 23





	1. And They Were Roommates

**Author's Note:**

> Not me spontaneously starting another fic because I literally can't control myself

“So, I wouldn’t call you unless I was desperate-” Jim started, rifling through papers after he’d wedged the phone between his ear and his shoulder.

Brian snorted. “Thanks.”

“Wait, you know that’s not what I meant.” He rolled his eyes and uncapped his pen with his teeth. “Listen, I’ve got a gig in New York, a proper, long-term role- but they want me to start on Wednesday, Bri, and I don’t even fucking live in the city.”

“What do you mean, you don’t fancy the commute from Stony Brook every day?” He chuckled. “What are you asking me for?”

“You know fucking everyone.” He sighed. “Does anyone need a roommate? I need- fucking hell, I need something in Manhattan, but I haven’t got two dimes to put towards it.”

Brian chuckled, and Jim could hear the warmth of the cigarette between his lips. “You’re right, I do know everyone.” He grinned. “And I might have something for you.”

Jim paused in his tracks. “You do?”

Brian grinned. “How much do you like cats?”

“As much as I have to.” He said breathlessly.

“I’m friends with an artist.” He said simply. “Batshit fucking insane. He’s got an apartment down in Chelsea, on the corner of West 23rd and 8th Avenue, and I think he’s got a penthouse room he rents for cheap. He mostly does it for the company.”

“Can I have his name?” He asked hopefully. “And number?”

“Sure. It’s Freddie Mercury.”

* * *

When he’d been told _artist, cats_ and _batshit fucking insane,_ there were certain images that had come to mind; he’d had an image of a tiny apartment, cramped, dirty, overrun with paint and turpentine in the sink with canvases stacked against every wall to dry or to die. He’d expected screeching furballs tearing up anything that moved, the furniture, every curtain or draping that decorated the room; he’d expected chaos that he’d have to endure until he could find something better.

He hadn’t anticipated a twenty-something in a white sweater and burgundy overalls to answer the door, hair swept back hastily into an artful little topknot: he hadn’t expected gorgeous high cheekbones and delicately arched eyebrows which quirked a little as he looked him over. He hadn’t anticipated the size of the apartment he’d been welcomed into with just a backpack in his hand; he hadn’t expected it would look quite so _New York City,_ white and clean and bright, open, spacious, walls hung with half-finished canvases in various states between wet and dry. He hadn’t anticipated monochromatic cats lounging lazily in windowsills and on top of silk cushions-

And he certainly hadn’t expected his room to be so gorgeously furnished and painted, the towels on his bed arranged into little swans as though he were in a hotel.

“I swear, Brian treats this house like it’s- it’s a fucking halfway house, darling!” Freddie grinned, standing in the doorway of his room. “So I learned how to make it feel a little more like one. Kettle on the windowsill- I don’t microwave my fucking tea, and you’re Irish, so I doubt you do either.”

“I certainly don’t.” He glanced over at Freddie with a grin. “Bathroom?”

“You’ve got your own through that door-” He pointed. “But the main one is just down the hallway, if you fancy a bath or something like that.” Freddie shrugged. “Anyway, the room is eighty dollars a week-”

Jim choked. “No way!”

“I don’t need the money, sweetheart, I need the noise and someone to eat my food.” He winked. “You’re in charge of keeping it clean, and I will kick you out if you don’t keep up your half of the chores.”

Jim nodded, dumbfounded. “Any- any house rules?”

“Get on with the cats.” Freddie grinned. “You’ll learn their names in time. And, obviously, get on with me. If you have to wake me up, make sure it’s with Earl Grey.” He laughed. “And please don’t touch any painting you see, no matter how much you like it or don’t like it. I make a living off of them, and they don’t sell half as well if they’ve got your mucky fingerprints on. Apart from that, shove my shit out the way if you need to, I have a tendency to leave stuff wherever I go.” He chuckled. “It’s your house, so do what you want. And, darling, I should warn you that you may occasionally see strange men in the morning, but I’m sure that won’t affect you too badly.” He winked.

Jim blushed but smiled back at him, pleased to get the awkwardness of the admission out of the way. “I don’t mind.” He promised. “Did Brian tell you-”

“He might’ve mentioned it.” Freddie smirked into his mug. “Thought we’d probably get on better for it.”

“At least I know you won’t kick me out if you find out.” He smiled earnestly.

“Course not. It’s a nice fucking apartment, bring guys back as much as you want- within reason, of course.” Freddie grinned. “Brian said you’d gotten a big break. What’s the job?”

“I’m a photographer.” He said, following Freddie back downstairs and into the kitchen, where he flicked on the kettle. “I- I’ve just been hired by Vogue.”

“Twenty minutes on the subway.” He said simply. “Goes pretty much from right outside our door to right outside theirs. But that’s a fucking good break, darling, congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He smiled shyly. “Listen, are you sure you don’t want anything else for the room? I feel like eighty is way too low.”

“You can pay me in cat food and cigarettes, if you want to.” He laughed. “You’ll soon learn that I get grouchy as fuck when I can’t smoke, and when I’m working on something big, I hate going out to stock up, so you can always bring me some on your way back from work.”

“I can do that.” He nodded earnestly. “Do you- do you know anyone who works for Vogue?”

“Darling-” He said, voice a little condescending. “I know every gay man that’s ever existed in this godforsaken city, from Harlem right the way down to the Lower East Side. Of course I know people that work for Vogue, it’s practically a rite of passage for a lot of the models who come here to make their names.”

“Okay, good. Do you-” Jim stopped and accepted the tea that Freddie made, taking a moment to study the pattern painted on the side of the mug. “Did you paint this?”

“I’ve painted just about everything in this flat.” Freddie smiled warmly. “Ceramics is just a passion project, I don’t make any money out of it. I actually threw that mug, glazed it, fired it, all that- I did it all.” He shrugged. “One of the good things about this city is knowing the right communities of people- I sucked a guy off in a park in Midtown Manhattan and he just happened to own a pottery studio, so now I have free run of the facilities to make whatever I want.” He showed him his own mug. “This one was a disaster, darling, I used far too much cobalt, I didn’t know what I was doing with the oxides, but I’d fucking paid for the clay, so I use it anyway.”

“Did you do all the pottery?” He asked curiously.

“Just about. There’s a couple of egg cups I bought, and one of my best friends threw me a mug which is in here somewhere, but I did all the plates, the bowls, everything you’ll probably use most.” He smiled, a hint of pride in his voice. “But then, darling, all the art on the walls is mine, I screen-printed the designs on the cushions in the lounge, and I believe the vase on your bedside table for all your lovers to leave their flowers is mine, too.” 

Jim grinned, enthralled by the man in front of him so much that he was speechless. “Jesus.” He laughed breathlessly.

Freddie blushed just a little, clearly pleased, and cleared his throat. “You were going to ask me a question, darling, about Vogue.” He prompted.

“Yeah.” He said quickly. “What do- what do the guys wear? I mean, I’m not a model, but I was told that it would be wise to learn how to fit in quite quickly.”

“Something casual, darling, don’t try too hard or they’ll laugh at you.” Freddie said bluntly. “White t-shirt, black jeans, pale blue blazer- wear boots, too, it’s fucking freezing out. Don’t try and look like a model- they can be very catty.”

“You sound like you speak from experience.” Jim smiled shyly.

“Oh, I’ve done bits and pieces of artistic direction for them, you know, arranging the pages, layering text and images, that kind of jazz. I was told by a model in one of the bathrooms that I’d never make it- and I told him that I already had, and then I took his photo out of the main feature.” He shrugged. “I can be as catty as the next bitch when I want to.”

“I’ll bear it in mind.” Jim grinned. 

“I’m not a model, darling, and I never will be- I’m far too homegrown.” He laughed, looking around his kitchen with pride. “But I’ve earned all the pennies I needed to get this place one way or another, and that’s making it for me. Being able to sell my paintings in galleries, in auctions, and having people pay for my signature- that’s enough for me. I don’t need to be loved and admired like they do- I just need to be happy.” He shrugged. “Six cats, a roommate and a pretty apartment does that for me.”


	2. Boxty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning one another.

His hair was damp from the rain, slicked back to let the water drip down the back of his collar instead of the front; he was infinitely grateful for Freddie’s little insistence on the boots he’d worn that morning, as his toes were the only part of his body that were still dry. He’d gotten lost on the way back to his flat, cursing as he scoured the dollar map of the city he’d bought in the subway station; he’d almost admitted defeat, looking for a shop door to sleep in, when he’d seen Freddie.

“Darling!” He said happily, walking over to him. “Christ, darling, it’s fucking freezing out here, what are you wandering around for?”

Jim dug in his pocket and weakly proffered a pack of cigarettes, holding them out for Freddie. “I couldn’t find somewhere that was open.” He shivered.

“That’s because it’s eleven at night, darling.” Freddie chuckled, shaking his head with a smile. “Come on, let’s go home, you must be fucking freezing.”

“Where were you going?” Jim asked, following him quickly and trying to memorise the buildings around them and the direction that they were walking. 

“Just night air, my dear. I was going for stroll in the park.” He winked. “But I’ll always save a damsel in distress when I see one.”

“I wasn’t lost-” Jim started.

“Liar. You took a right out of the station. You would’ve walked halfway to Central Park if I hadn’t caught up with you.” Freddie took a cigarette from the packet and lit it quickly before he offered Jim another. 

Jim paused. “How did you-”

“New York City looks exactly the fucking same around every corner if you don’t know where you’re going.” Freddie shrugged. “I waited outside the subway station for you to walk you home, but you clearly completely missed the sight of me.”

“How did you know what time I’d get back?” He asked, amazed.

“I figured you’d be the last out the building, because you’re the new guy, so that gave me ten o’clock, and then an hour for a subway journey because you’re new and you don’t know where you’re going. I figured you’d probably get off at the wrong stop and then have to get back on.” He shrugged with a grin. “So I thought I’d see you about eleven. And by my watch, it’s-” He paused and raised his wrist. “Eleven-oh-eight, so I wasn’t far off.”

Jim paused, dumbfounded, and then laughed. “Too much weird shit has happened today for this to happen too.”

“Welcome to the big city, sunshine.” Freddie laughed, shoving his key in the door and budging it open with his shoulder. “How was Vogue?”

“I think I need to start snorting speed to keep up with them.” He muttered, making Freddie burst out laughing.

“Darling, I knew a queen who did that, and we all thought he was invincible until the day he died in his sleep.” He shook his head. “I realise they’re all heroin thin and gorgeous, but it just isn’t worth it.”

“I just envy their energy!” He landed on the sofa heavily and Freddie grinned, his heart feeling a little warm with the sight of him so comfortable and sprawled out in his home. “It’s like they inject caffeine or something. How can anyone have that much fucking energy?”

“There are people in life who seem to just absorb the energy of the city, darling, without needing food or coffee. Personally, I was never one of them.” He shrugged, wandering into the kitchen. “Tea?” He called.

“Please.” Jim said tiredly, heaving himself back up and leaning against the kitchen doorway. Freddie glanced back at him and smiled, a little sleepy around the eyes, and Jim couldn’t help but smile earnestly back at him.

“What don’t you go and get into something comfier? And something dry?” Freddie asked, unable to help himself from fussing over the new boy in his house. “Did you eat today? I know Vogue can be absolutely manic at the best of times.”

Jim paused, and then shook his head with a blush on his cheeks. “No, I didn’t.” He said shyly. 

“I thought that might be the case.” Freddie turned to the fridge. “There’s an Irish pub-restaurant-takeout kind of thing on West 31st. I got- well, I don’t know what you like, but they had this cheddar boxty that looked pretty good, and they said you’d usually just eat it with bacon and eggs-”

Jim’s mouth fell open and he laughed. “Holy shit.” He grinned. “Freddie, that’s fucking perfect.”

He shrugged, pleased. “So go and put some warm clothes on and I’ll make you dinner.”

Jim smiled shyly. “Are you sure?” He asked softly. “I can- I can cook, it’s fine. Jesus, I haven’t had boxty in years.”

“No, I insist!” Freddie shook his head. “I’ve been lounging around the house all day, and you’ve just had your first day at one of the most mental companies in the world to work for. I haven’t even worked today.”

“I-” Jim blushed harder, taking Freddie’s hand and just squeezing it a little. “Thank you, Freddie.”

* * *

Freddie lay back on his sofa, cat purring away against his chest as he pet her lazily. “This is Tiffany.” He said softly, kissing the cat’s head. “She’s my only pedigree. I rescued the rest of them, but Tiff was a twenty-fifth birthday present.”

Jim brushed crumbs from his lips and smiled. “She’s gorgeous.” He said earnestly. “Who gave her to you?”

“My bitch of an ex-boyfriend.” He chuckled. “He wanted to take her when he left- we used to live here together, and I told him that the cats were staying or I’d br fucking break into his house to get them back.” He shrugged. “You can probably tell we didn’t end on great terms.”

“You know, funnily enough, I can tell.” He grinned shyly. “What happened?”

“Oh, darling, it’s one hell of a story.” Freddie shook his head as though it seemed funny to him. “I was deep in the scene at the time- barely functioning during the day and then suddenly coming alive at night, that kind of thing. I was off my tits on speed all the time.” He said honestly. “It’s a miracle I never overdosed, really. Anyway, I was off my tits and I told him that if he went to the Everard - that’s the bathhouse down on West 28th - I told him that I’d never speak to him again. Anyway, a friend of a friend of a friend-” He laughed a little. “Told me he was down there fucking someone else, so I went, paid my entrance fee, stripped off, slapped him, and then I threw myself out of the first floor window.”

Jim’s jaw dropped open. “What?”   
  
“It’s a bitch of a drug.” Freddie shrugged, leaning down and pulling up the bottom of his jeans. “I got that scar from it. They basically had to slice my leg open and screw it back together, but that’s the only injury I got.”

“You- I really can’t imagine you doing that.” He admitted.

“I came here at the age of twenty chasing a dream that doesn’t exist, honey, and I wasn’t ready to accept that it doesn’t exist. I came here chasing some kind of fucking relationship, but nothing lasts.” He reached over and took the cigarettes from the counter, lighting one quickly. “But I knew if I stayed in that scene, it’d fucking kill me, so I got the numbers of the friends that meant the most to me and then decided I’d never go back.”

“What do you mean by- the scene?” Jim asked earnestly. 

“There’s a certain group of gay men in the city, darling, and that’s their entire identity- they sleep dawn ‘til dusk, wake up, powder their faces, and dance. And their whole life is the dancing, and the parties, and the drugs, and the parks, and the sex- it’s so exhausting.” He explained. “And I was trying to do that, whilst working a nine-to-five. But the scene is all the clubs, the parties, the baths, the orgies, constantly chasing new men and new experiences and new excitement.”

Jim chewed on his lip. “What’s your job?” He asked, changing tack a little.

Freddie started to smile, a little proud. “Right now, I’m the special collections curator for the Museum of Modern Art.” He explained. “Most artists have a job on the side, darling, unless you’re some kind of household name and people will pay for your signature.”

Jim’s face brightened. “That’s so cool!” He said excitedly.

“I was the youngest ever director.” He boasted. “I lived with my parents in Kensington- yeah, in London.” He laughed at the look on Jim’s face. “And when I was nineteen, I heard that they were hiring for a new director, and I- I wasn’t even out of art school myself, but I thought- fuck it, you know, I’d never had a job before and at least then I’d know what it was like to apply for that kind of position.”

“And you got it?” He asked, aghast.

“I still don’t know how.” He chuckled. “It was fucking ridiculous, really, it was a stupid, impulsive decision that I made, but they believed in me. They saw- they saw this passionate kid in a stupid patchwork jumper and they decided that I had something they needed. So I- I did something not dissimilar to you, I moved my whole life into the city in the space of two weeks, bought myself decent clothes, and I rented the spare room of a flat in the Upper East Side until I could afford to buy this place.”

“It feels like such a- such a jump.” Jim admitted shyly. “To change everything so quickly- I’m not used to it.”

Freddie smiled warmly at him. “How old actually are you?” He asked curiously. 

“Twenty-one.” He said softly. “My parents live in Stony Brook, so I wasn’t a million miles away, but we were in Ireland until I was nineteen- it’s a big culture shock.”

“I can imagine.” Freddie said sympathetically. “You’re practically still a kid.”

“How old are you?” Jim asked.

“Twenty-six. I’m a veteran, darling.” Freddie took a drag of his cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “I’m not jaded, though, I don’t think. I still feel a lot of the city magic.” 

“I can’t wait until I’m a veteran, so I stop getting fucking lost.” Jim muttered, and Freddie burst out laughing. 

“I’ll take you out for a walk at the weekend.” He promised. “The Irish pub, the local grocery place, Barracuda-” He winked. “All the essentials.”

“What’s Barracuda?” He asked innocently.

“Barracuda is where the dream of love goes to die.” Freddie smirked, taking another drag. “I’m joking. It’s our local gay club, and it isn’t half as bad as the others.”

“Will you take me?” Jim asked hopefully. “I- I don’t like going places on my own, and I- well, I don’t have too many friends in the city yet.”

“Sure. Have you got any plans Saturday?” Freddie offered. “Saturdays are good as long as you don’t mind a lot of men in drag.”

“I don’t mind.” He said immediately.

“Good, darling. You can meet a couple of my friends if you’d like- I know a guy who stuffs his blouse with avocados to complete the look.” Freddie laughed. “That’s my friend Phoebe, and there’s Liza and Liz- I gave them stupid names back in my heyday.”

“What are they actually called?” Jim grinned.

“Peter, Joe, and Roger.” He chuckled. “You know Brian, obviously, but he’s far too straight laced to wear a wig- actually, he once came to my birthday party as a witch, so only when everyone else is in costume, too.”

“Will we be in costume?” Jim asked earnestly. 

Freddie grinned. “Do you want to be?”

He bit his lip. “I don’t know.” He said shyly.

“Most people rock up the first time in jeans and a t-shirt, darling, you’ll cause enough of a stir by being a pretty new face.” He winked. “Saturday it is. You can decide at six on Saturday evening if you still want to go out.” He chuckled. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” He asked curiously.

Freddie just grinned. “Honey, I’ll be surprised if you even wake up on Saturday. That’s Vogue for you.”


	3. Town Cars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Learning one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is all over the place but so am I, I promise the next one will be better

The first thing that Freddie had taught him had been how to make the old front door budge; though his apartment was beautiful on the inside, the door had swollen inside its frame and rarely liked to be opened or closed.  _ Twist the key to the left,  _ Freddie had taught him,  _ and then two full turns to the right, and then push your entire weight against it. _

It had taken him a time or two of Freddie taking pity on him and pulling on it from the inside until he’d realised just how much force it took to open. Freddie had joked in the kitchen one morning that they wore identical bruises on their left shoulders from throwing themselves against the old wood, and Jim had noticed the red bloom that Freddie carefully hid under the sleeve of whatever he wore with a wink.

He blew his wet hair from his eyes, already sick of the springtime weather that felt as though it could’ve belonged to the middle of winter; he threw himself against the door once, twice, and then tumbled tiredly into the hallway. 

He looked up quickly when he heard a sudden rustling of clothing, cheeks heating when he saw Freddie laid back on the sofa with a man he’d never seen before sat between his thighs, the stranger hastily zipping his jeans. “Darling!” Freddie sang without a moment’s hesitation, casually reaching for his drink on the table as though his cheeks weren’t flushed and his hair wasn’t tangled. “I wasn’t expecting you to be back from work so early.”

“Turns out the boss doesn’t work Thursdays.” He murmured, averting his eyes while he pulled off his shoes. “We finish at eight instead of ten.”

“I feel like you could do with an early night.” Freddie smiled sympathetically, kicking the stranger in the hip until he moved and let him sit upright. “Paul, darling, this is my flatmate Jim.”

“Another Irishman.” Paul grinned, leaning over and shaking Jim’s hand as he sat down. “Not that Freddie’s got a type or anything.”

Freddie kicked him again. “Jim, this is Paul, my-” He paused for a moment, as though considering the word. “My boyfriend.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Jim murmured shyly, though he couldn’t help but cast a curious eye over him, wondering if he was the same man that Freddie had mentioned a few nights ago.

The silence around them was awkward for a moment until Freddie nudged at Paul’s hip with his toes. “Baby, it’s your cue to vanish.” He smiled, saccharine sweet. “Tonight’s my pamper night, and you know what that means.”

“You and your lotions and potions.” He rolled his eyes and kissed him quickly. “I’ll see you later.”

“Pull the door closed properly on your way out!” Freddie called as he walked out, grabbing his cigarettes from the table and lighting one before offering one to Jim. Once the door slammed, he shook his head. “He’s such a dickhead, but he’s fucking brilliant in bed.”

Jim arched an eyebrow at him. “Priorities?” He grinned a little. “Please.”

“You can’t tell me you never get to the end of the work week and feel like you deserve a shag at the end of it.” Freddie chuckled and lit Jim’s cigarette on the end of his own before he handed it over. “Every time I date him, he cheats on me- it’s been seven or eight times now, but I haven’t exactly got men lining up at the door anymore.”

“Is it worth it?” Jim asked curiously.

“As long as you don’t expect any kind of emotional connection.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I’m boring, tell me about your day.”

Jim looked at him curiously for a long moment, wondering if Freddie really believed that; he considered him one of the most interesting people in New York, always armed with a story to make him laugh at midnight and a cup of tea to wake him up in the morning. “It was the same shit, really.” Jim admitted after a moment. “I did the coffee run four times before I finally managed to get the coffees back hot- I think I wasted about fifty dollars on Starbucks because they wouldn’t drink it because it didn’t burn the inside of their mouths.”

“Expensed, I hope?” Freddie asked.

“Yeah. I haven’t got fifty dollars to blow.” He chuckled.

“The first thing you should learn about Vogue, darling, is that everyone takes the piss with expenses. Nobody checks the receipts that go through finance- go wild.” He chuckled. “I expensed a Dolce and Gabbana suit through Vogue and all they did was compliment me on it.”

He gasped. “Really?”

“Yeah. There’s a wardrobe on the lower ground floor- you can take as many clothes out of there as you want. Ask one of the stylists to do you in a lunch break.” He suggested. “You know, I knew a guy that took a cab from Stony Brook to Vogue twice a day, four days a week, and he never paid a dime of the money himself.”

“Why the fuck am I getting the subway, then?” He laughed.

“I don’t know, why are you?” Freddie grinned. “Listen, I’ve got to go down to Vogue tomorrow, so we’ll get a Town Car. They’re easier to finance than cabs, they send the monthly invoice to Vogue.” 

Jim nodded dumbly. “What are you going for?” He asked curiously.

“Just a meeting about next month’s editorial, that’s all. I’m a friend of one of the editors, he tends to bring me in when he can’t get the layout of the magazine right.” He explained, taking a long drag of his cigarette. 

“You seem to have every job under the sun.” Jim said softly.

“And yet I don’t seem to work at all?” Freddie laughed. “A lot of my work is done in sprints.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” He squeaked.

“I know you didn’t, I’m kidding.” Freddie nudged him with his toes playfully. “I’ll work a seventy hour week before a special collection goes live at the museum, I’ll do a week of fourteen hour days at Vogue, or I’ll paint through the night if I’ve got my own collection coming up, but it’s all pretty slow at the moment.”

“You-” Jim bit his lip, his expression shy but playful. “I think you have more to do with Vogue than you’re telling me.”

“I think you flatter me.” Freddie winked. “I’d certainly like to, but I don’t have anywhere near the experience that they’d want for an artistic director. I can lay a magazine and make some decisions about typography, but I don’t know the first thing about photography- and I certainly don’t know anything about fashion.”

* * *

“I mean-” Freddie propped his feet up on the desk and twirled his lollipop around his mouth. “The photos- they’re not very inspiring, are they? They’re bland- it’s just clothes hanging off a body, there’s no- where’s the interest?”

“The collection is more serious-” Peter started, and Freddie raised an eyebrow.

“Serious doesn’t sell. You can showcase serious clothes and still make the photography interesting.” He yawned into his sleeve and flipped through the sketchbook where all the photos were pinned. “Are you planning to retake them?”

“I will do if you want to.” He sat on the table. “Your call.”

“Let’s use a different photographer.” He suggested. “Can we hire someone new?”

“The art department only hired a new guy last week.” He countered. “I mean, he’s an assistant to the photography team, but I think he’s qualified.”

Freddie hid his smile in his cup of coffee. “Can I see his work?” He asked curiously. “Where’s his portfolio?”

Peter stood up and walked to the bookcase at the back of his office, picking up a large portfolio case and unzipping it before he spread the contents on his desk. “It might be more your style.”

His fingers caressed the glossy pages of the photographs, smiling as he looked through endless stylised pictures, the artistry evident in the angles of his subjects, the washed out or brightened colours; no photo simply existed without a hint of something special within it. “Oh, I love these.” He smiled. “This is what I mean, taking something and making it look- these look gorgeous, don’t you think?”

“I mean, we hired him for a reason.” Peter shrugged, though he was smiling back at him. “You’ll have to wrestle him off of Samantha though, she’s got him on coffee and lunch runs.”

“Why doesn’t she use a fucking runner that’s actually hired to do that?” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway, she technically falls under me, so I can tell her what to do. Can I meet this guy?”

“Sure. I’ll go and get him.” He stood up as Freddie began to work again on the sketchbook, unpinning the photos that he hated and throwing them to the side, replacing them with photos he took from Jim’s portfolio; he couldn’t help the smile, nearing on a smirk, that grew on his face.

Peter walked out of the office and down two flights of stairs; he cast a quick smile at Samantha’s assistant and then ducked into her office. “Where’s Jim?” He asked. 

“He’s probably doing letters.” She said idly, flicking through the photos on her desk. “He’s about to go out on errands.”

“Freddie wants him.” He said bluntly. 

“What for?” She asked, arching her eyebrow.

“I don’t know. It’s not my place to question it.” He shrugged. “But he told me I had to get him in no uncertain terms.”

She watched him for a moment and then shrugged. “Try the third floor.” She agreed. “He’s probably folding letters to go out tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” He grinned, leaving the room and then travelling down to the third floor. 

He opened up the door to the mailroom and smiled at the sight of a young guy hunched over the desk, carefully folding and refolding letters printed on Vogue paper. “Are you Jim?” He asked hopefully.

Jim looked up quickly and smiled. “Yeah.” He stood up quickly and shook his hand. 

“I’m Peter.” He said warmly. “I’m the assistant creative director on the design team.”

“Oh, amazing.” Jim grinned. “What can I do for you?”

“My boss wants to see you. He’s had a look through your work and he thinks he might like to have you shoot some photos for next month’s magazine.” Peter said happily. “Does that sound alright to you?”

“Oh my God.” He laughed, following Peter when he gestured to follow him out into the elevators. “Are you serious?”

“Unless you particularly enjoy folding letters and running for coffee?” He chuckled, pressing the button for the top floor. “We thought you might fancy actually taking some photos.”

“Yeah, of course!” He said excitedly, following him to the door of an office and walking through.

Peter cleared his throat. “Jim, this is our creative director, Freddie Mercury.”

Freddie’s feet were back up on the desk, and he had a cigarette closed between his lips; he winked at Jim from behind the table that his work was spread out on. “Nice to see you, darling. Sit down.”

Jim mouthed helplessly for a moment, his cheeks scarlet and his eyebrows raised, but he did as he was told and sat in front of him. “I like your style.” He said simply, not offering any niceties; Jim immediately understood that he wasn’t to give away that he knew Freddie outside the walls of their building. “How would you feel about shooting some stuff for me tomorrow?”

“What kind of stuff?” He asked eagerly.

He sat forward in his chair, his feet hitting the floor, and twisted the sketchbook around so that Jim could see it. “I like the candid style that you used in these pieces.” He explained; Jim could see that he’d layered pieces of his own photography with the real editorial columns of the month. He couldn’t help but smile in disbelief; he almost couldn’t believe that his own work was in the sketchbook of a Vogue director, whether he’d known him beforehand or not. “So, I wondered if you could come out with myself and Peter tomorrow, out onto the streets, and shoot some of our models in that style.”

“I’d love to.” He said immediately, catching Freddie’s eye; he could see the happiness in his gaze, as though he knew exactly the tumult of amazement and excitement that tumbled through Jim’s heart. 

“I’ll meet you here at eleven.” Freddie told him. “Bring your camera.”

* * *

“Freddie!” Jim called, running down the street towards him. “Freddie, wait!”

Freddie glanced back and then ducked around the corner, pleased when Jim followed him unquestioningly. “Freddie, hold up!” He called again, running faster until he caught Freddie’s shoulder. “You’ve got to explain to me what the fuck is going on.”

“Get in the car.” Freddie murmured in his ear, ducking him into a Town Car as quickly as he could. He followed and sat beside him, telling the driver the address quickly, before he turned to Jim and smiled. “Insane day, hm?”

“What the fuck happened?” He asked breathlessly. “You-”

“I think my Phoebe told you everything you needed to know.” Freddie chuckled.

“You said you weren’t an artistic director.” He said confusedly. “But then-”

“I’m not. I’m a creative director.” He grinned, lighting a cigarette. “Listen, okay, I might consider us friends, but I’m not doing this out of the goodness of my heart. I genuinely think you’re a brilliant photographer.”

Jim blushed and started to smile. “So you’re- you’re the creative director of Vogue?”

“There we go.” Freddie winked. “I’m not deliberately being weird at work, but if they find out I know you outside of the office, they’ll assume I’m giving you special treatment, and then you’ll never get a proper break with them.”

He nodded dumbly. “So we- we’re not friends at work?”

“We can be friends at work, just- appropriately, you know?” Freddie grinned. “Supposedly, you’ve only met me once, so you wouldn’t know how I like my tea or the name of my boyfriend.”

“Thank you.” Jim said honestly, biting his lip shyly. “For what you said about my photos.”

“Hey, that’s alright.” Freddie nudged his shoulder playfully, any division between them suddenly seeming to fall away in the warmth and comfort of their little Town Car. “I know it’s all weird, and I should’ve told you before, really, but I- I didn’t want you to feel like I was hanging over you at home and at work. I wanted us to be genuine friends.”

“We are.” Jim grinned earnestly. “I mean- friends help each other out, right?”

“Right.” Freddie agreed with a chuckle. “Now- can I take you out for a drink to celebrate?”


	4. Artists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They work well together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're ready for Freddie's chaotic bitch energy

He loved the way that the sunshine would spill in through his window, even in the early mornings when he dragged himself out of bed at five; he loved the way that the light would dance in the steam from the mouth of his kettle as he lay in bed and watched the sunrise. He loved the feeling of the sheets that crackled around him, the heaviness of the duvet that would reluctantly release him from its grasp so that he could stir sugar into his coffee; he’d been told that they were Egyptian cotton, a luxury he hadn’t expected for a room that cost eighty dollars per week. He never closed his curtains, loving too much the sight of the New York City skyline in the morning; though the work was hard, though the days were exhausting and the nights nowhere near long enough, he would never not love the way that the sunlight reflected on the windows of the apartment blocks around him when he first woke up.

He’d learned very quickly that socks were necessary on Freddie’s concrete and tile floors. He kept a ball of them on his nightstand, close enough to grab them without having to stand; he would lazily pull them on just to achieve the first mouthful of coffee before his mind had time to complain.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty!” Freddie sang as Jim walked into the lounge, taken aback to find him cross-legged on the floor with a palette balanced on his knee and a half-painted canvas propped on the easel in front of him.

“Why the hell are you awake?” Jim blurted out, rubbing his eye.

“Charming!” Freddie laughed, leaning in and touching his paintbrush to the corner of the lips of his portrait. “I haven’t been to bed. I had a coffee with you after you came in from work- what time was that? Ten? Eleven?” He shrugged and took another mouthful from his mug. “Then you went to bed, and I had this- this idea.” He waved at his canvas.

“What are you painting?” He asked, sitting down on the floor beside Freddie.

“It looks a bit bizarre at the moment.” He sucked on his lip and wiped his paintbrush off on his overalls, before he swirled it in the jam jar of water beside him. “It’s- it’s a guy, obviously, but you can only see his nose and his lips, and then the rest of his face is going to be flowers. But not- not a pretty arrangement, you know, it’s going to be all these crazy flowers-”

He glanced over at Jim, and almost felt like blushing at just how intently he listened, tracing the pencil lines of his flowers with his eyes. “You know, most people think I’m mental when I start talking about art.”

“I like it.” Jim’s grin was wide and toothy, child-like and happy. “It’s like when I talk about photographs. You start telling people this idea you’ve got, and they just look at you like you’re totally crazy.” He laughed. “Maybe it’s because people can’t see the inside of my head.”

“No, you’re right!” Freddie said enthusiastically, his eyes wide and happy. “God, this is so romantic, isn’t it? Two artists living in New York.” He sighed happily.

“No one’s ever called me an artist before.” Jim grinned into his mug, his cheeks flushing pink. 

“Well, you are, aren’t you?” Freddie grinned, dipping his brush in the crimson paint on his palette and then gently touching it to the high point of Jim’s cheekbone, painting him a little heart. “You take photos like I paint- you see the world differently, you see the world in colour filters and angles and- and- you’re just different, aren’t you, your mind is so different.”

The word  _ different  _ was a compliment on Freddie’s lips;  _ different  _ was their shared connection, something that united them, both a willingness and a talent to see the world through an artist’s lens instead of merely seeing what was there. It was Freddie’s ability to see purple in the hollows of his model’s cheeks, or bright, fluorescent green on the bridge of their nose; it was Jim’s ability to photograph the tiny piece of moss in the crack of a New York pavement and make it seem as beautiful as the whole of a rainforest. 

His cheeks flushed redder at the praise -  _ candy apple,  _ Freddie would murmur to himself as he searched the walls of the London Graphic Centre for just the right shade, a shade he could never create himself, not with every pigment and every material in the world. “I think I’ve got a lot to learn from you.” Jim murmured judiciously, softening his tone a little when he met Freddie’s eyes again.

“Well, why do you think I’m taking you out today?” Freddie grinned, standing up suddenly and holding out his hand for Jim. “I know we said Saturday, darling, but Paul’s insisting we do dinner-” He rolled his eyes playfully as he dragged him into the kitchen. “And, besides, clubbing’s always best when you’re fucked off your head on speed on about three hours of sleep.” He snorted. “So, pack your clothes in your bag, or I’ll fit you out of the Vogue wardrobe if you haven’t got anything that takes your fancy.”

Jim’s jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I’m absolutely serious.” He grinned back at him, flicking the kettle on for another coffee. “The thing with high fashion, darling, is that most people wouldn’t be seen dead out on the street in most of what goes onto the runways. The only place they would be seen dead wearing it is in clubs.”

“I guess- people want to be seen?” He asked curiously. “I don’t know if I’m that kind of guy.”

“Oh, you are.” Freddie winked. “One time I was the biggest exhibitionist bitch of them all, but I suppose I gave up that title when I settled down to be a twenty-something professional. God, the drugs are nasty, but they make you feel invincible.” He shook his head. “Anyway- short and tight, darling, and we’ll find you a whole host of men to choose from in no time. You’ll be able to have anyone that chooses your fancy- you’re definitely pretty enough, and they’re like dogs looking for meat most of the time. You’re a new face in a community where everyone knows everyone else’s cock.”

He bit his lip shyly. “Will you stay with me?”

“Of course!” Freddie pressed a kiss to his cheek as he walked past him for the milk in the fridge. “You, darling, are my son, and it would be incredibly irresponsible of me to leave you to get eaten alive on your first night out in the world.”

“It’s so different.” He whispered. “I’ve been out to a few clubs in Ireland, but- well, they’re nothing like this.”

“New York is the centre of the world, darling. People come from every corner of the globe for a Friday and Saturday night in these clubs; I’ve got friends in London who’ll fly out at lunchtime on a Friday and paint themselves for the club in the fucking airport bathrooms, just because the scene is so unrivalled here.” He shrugged. “It’s daunting, but it’s so fucking exciting. And you know I won’t let anything happen to you.” He flashed him a comforting smile and reached for the bread on his counter. “Breakfast?”

Jim looked up at the clock and bit his lip. “I’ll be late for work.” He murmured.

“We won’t start shooting until eleven, darling, there’s no hurry.” Freddie insisted. “Come on, you’ve got to live on more than coffee with fourteen sugars and a fucking pack of Cheetos.”

“I’ve got to be in at seven.” He sighed. “But thanks for the offer, Fred.”

“You absolutely don’t.” Freddie scoffed. “You’re on my watch today, and I’m not starting work until ten, so you won’t be either.”

“But Samantha-”

“With the greatest of respect, darling, fuck Samantha. If she’s got a problem with it, you just send her to me.” He nodded. “Anyway, you can go back to bed for a while if you want to. I’ll stay awake- I do my best work when I’m sleep-deprived to fuck.”

Jim watched him for a moment before he started laughing. “You’re fucking mad.” He grinned in disbelief.

“Why do you think I get introduced as batshit fucking insane?” Freddie winked at him, lifting the cup to his lips and taking a long swallow. “Darling, you’ve only seen me sober and unfocused. You haven’t seen me at work yet.”

“Is it something I should look forward to?” He asked, pulling a few things out of their fridge for breakfast and watching Freddie’s smile widened. 

“It depends on how much you like being ordered around, honey.” Freddie crooned, a little flirtatious, and jutted his lower lip playfully. “I can be awfully demanding, you know?”

“You strike me as that kind of man.” He grinned, a little more confident as the petals of Freddie’s character slowly began to unravel. 

“Darling, I’m nothing if not an open book.” He tapped the heart painted on Jim’s cheek and Jim caught a glance of them both in the hallway mirror; his cheeks reddened again immediately when he realised what Freddie had done.

“Do you-”

“Why don’t you hop in the shower?” Freddie asked abruptly. “Breakfast will be a little while and the hot water’s always full at the beginning of the day. Besides, you’ll want to be looking your best for the shoot.” He grinned. “Go on, darling, shoo.”

He swallowed his words, his mind curious and his heart hopeful, and nodded. “Good idea.”

* * *

The way he walked seemed to Jim to be a dance to music which no one else could hear; he danced through rows of commuters, dancing between them, his eyes casting a critical glance over every shop front, every office building, every person wearing the same coat that he’d bought at least four years ago. He seemed different out on the street than he had in the office; in the office he was calm and calculating, clever, controlling. Out on the street, however, his effervescent creativity seemed to overwhelm his very being; it was as though paint thrummed through his veins instead of blood and when it rose to his skin, instead of bruising, it would paint him green, blue, purple, orange.

Maybe it was the smudges left over from another canvas stacked against their living room wall.

Jim followed him quickly, the winter sunshine threatening to blind him as it bounced its way across the roofs of taxis, across window-displays organised by the window-dressers he would later come to meet in the sleazy underbelly of New York City, across office windows holding back the masses that wanted to touch his hair, his chest, his thighs.

He didn’t even notice the glances that were cast his way, the curious eyes that wanted to swallow him whole, curled eyelashes hiding cerulean blues that watched the way his curls draped on his forehead with all the jealousy in the world behind them. All that concerned him was the camera, the new DSLR camera that Freddie had almost thrown to him with the assumption that he would understand every intricacy of its settings despite having never held it before.

“It’s going to work like a catwalk.” Freddie was explaining, breathless from the pace of his own footsteps, as he danced amongst the begrudging footsteps of men whose eyes clung to him; Jim glanced up long enough to watch the way they stared, wondering if they recognised him, or else wondering whether they were as stunned by his beauty as he had been when Freddie had opened his front door on that fateful first day together. “And you-” He turned around, walking backwards, trusting the crowds behind him to part for him to make his way. “You are going to give me something you’ve never given Dolce and Gabbana, and you’ve never given Gucci, and you’ve never given the fucking fashion weeks here or in Paris or in London-”

His back hit a broad chest and he barely paused, spitting on the stranger’s shoe before he continued his tirade. “You’re going to give me a little bit of personality, a little bit of sex appeal, a little bit of naughtiness- a little bit of  _ je ne sais quoi, _ you know what I mean.” He winked at Jim. “And my angel is going to take pictures of you being- being fucking phenomenal, my dears, and he’s not going to have to ask you to do anything, because you’re all naturals and you’re all going to impress me. Understood?”

The enthusiastic chorus around them sent a shock of excitement under Jim’s skin, and he found himself walking to the same focus that thrummed through Freddie; a heady club beat, filling him with pride, with confidence.

Suddenly, he believed that the photos that came from his camera really were works of art.

He watched as Freddie flaunted a hundred in front of a group of teenagers that crowded in front of the doors of the Chrysler Building; their eyes followed it hypnotically as he smirked and waved it in front of their faces. “Fuck off for me.” He smiled sweetly, moving his scarf back a little to show the tiny little  _ Vogue  _ inscription on the jacket he wore. 

“Oh, isn’t New York a wonderful place?” Freddie sang as he wandered back over to them, pleased with himself as he spaced his models out along the line he’d created in his mind; his brow grew furrowed with intent and concentration and his smile only widened.

“Right, honey.” He walked over to Jim and rested a hand on his shoulder, his lips almost brushing Jim’s ear. “These guys and girls are experienced, they’ve all done catwalks for me before, so you shouldn’t have any problems with that. They’re going to walk a continuous circuit until I say they can stop, and you’re going to take lots of beautiful shots for me.” He kissed his cheek.

“Faggot!” A man across the road wearing a three-piece suit and a cigarette propped between his lips shouted towards them.

“Excuse me.” Freddie murmured, grabbing an apple core discarded in the top of a bin beside them and throwing it at him; Jim was aghast at his impeccable aim as the rotten core slapped against his nose. “Anyway, what was I saying?”

Jim covered his mouth to stifle his laughter. “Beautiful shots.” He grinned.

“Beautiful shots!” Freddie agreed. “Stage them as candids, my dear, I don’t want anything boring and prescriptive. Make them-” He held his hand up as if framing a shot in the fragments of light between his fingers. “Make them move, you know, in the photos. I want them to dance for me.” He grinned, plucking his cigarettes from his pocket and placing one in his mouth, before he stuck another between Jim’s lips. “Get it?”

Jim nodded slowly, grinning, taking a moment to process the information that acted as a whirlwind in his mind. “You know, I think I have got it.”

“Perfect!” Freddie clapped his hands twice. “Then let’s go!”

They were interrupted only once by the snapping of an expensive Louboutin heel, only twice by spatterings of rain that sent the models shrieking into the foyer of the building, and only three times by Freddie threatening to kill people if they walked in front of his shot again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to delphi for correcting my french lol


	5. Styling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie gives him a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, they're so delicious!

The building was quiet around them, the sun long descended beyond the horizon, not even able to be seen from Freddie’s office on the thirty-fourth floor; many of the rooms had been overtaken by darkness, figures hurrying out with the promises of Friday night drinks, Friday night dinner, and Friday night parties. Freddie himself had been invited to four separate ones, two executive parties with all the right celebrities, one hosted by the head stylist, and one that was guaranteed to be on the front page of _New York_ come Sunday morning. He’d had outfits thrown at him that afternoon, seven separate gifts from designers that wanted him to be seen in the right shirt, the right jeans, a new pair of boots with heels at least three inches tall, ones that he would most definitely be wearing to Barracuda that night.

Each one had been declined with a sly smile, raising shocked eyebrows; he was the one man that never turned down a night out, and yet he’d suddenly blacked out a whole weekend from his calendar. 

His door clicked open and he looked up from where he was painting his toenails, bare legs thrown over the edge of his desk as he coloured them scarlet. The shorts he wore barely preserved his modesty, a relic he’d been gifted from the first collection that Armani had ever released, ones that seemed to sculpt his body in a way that he’d never managed to find since then, ones that had found their way into an edition of Vogue - strictly without his permission - with a photo of him wearing them while he fell out of the doors of the Mine Shaft at four o’clock in the morning without a shirt.

The executive that had made the decision to allow that had had his coffee salted for months afterwards.

Jim stood still for a moment, hand seemingly stuck to the brass doorknob, until Freddie arched his eyebrow. “Can I help you, deary?”

“You look like a Greek goddess.” Jim blurted out, his cheeks pinkening before he started to laugh.

“I mean-” Freddie grinned as he sat back. “Thanks, I think?”

“It’s just the-” He gestured to Freddie’s legs. “The pose, I mean, it’s like an Aphrodite statue.”

“You’re far more cultured than I am.” Freddie snorted, lighting a cigarette. “I got a wax at lunchtime, you know, so I thought it was worth getting them out. Even in March, those clubs get fucking hot.” He stood up and walked over to Jim, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. “You won’t be needing that.”

Jim’s eyes were fixated on the way he held the filter in the corner of his mouth as he talked, his mouth going a little dry. “Do you need a light?” He asked, trying to think of something intelligent to say.

“I won’t say no.” Freddie grinned as he took out his lighter and touched it to the end of his cigarette. “You’re a darling. Now, did you bring clothes, or am I dressing you?”

“I don’t really have anything- anything special.” He admitted.

“Well then!” Freddie clapped his hands. “Come on. Don’t ask me to wear shoes, darling, my arches’ll collapse if I wear those boots for more than ten minutes.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.” Jim laughed, following him out into the hallway and taking a drag on the cigarette when Freddie offered it to him. 

“Oh, then you’ll do well with me.” Freddie winked and pushed the button for the lower ground floor. “You know, I’ve argued a thousand times that this department should be even vaguely near my office, but they just won’t hear it. Apparently, because I’m not part of the fashion department, it shouldn’t bother me so much.” He shook his head. “I mean, excuse me for wanting to look good, you know? Who would’ve thought it would be such a crime in the offices of fucking Vogue?”

Jim chuckled. “What are you dressing me in?”

“A little black dress, darling, and bright gold sandals.” He said, keeping his face deadpan for a moment before he snorted. “I don’t know. What colours do you like?”

Jim followed him through four sets of doors that all had different codes that Freddie had somehow memorised, a little aghast. “I tend to go pretty simple.” He admitted. “Just- black, white, a bit of blue, you know?”

Freddie threw open the doors to a huge closet that walked into, looking awfully confident as he stood amongst millions of pounds’ worth of clothes; Jim watched as he threw the cigarette aside into an ashtray where it smouldered. “Don’t worry, honey, I’m not going to put you in tiny leather shorts- that’s strictly my domain.” He laughed as he flicked through a row of white shirts; to Jim, they all looked the same, but Freddie’s critical eye saw something that his didn’t. “Take your shirt off for me. What size do you take?”

“Medium, sometimes a large. I’ve got broad shoulders.” He answered, grabbing the neck of his shirt and pulling it overhead quickly.

When Freddie turned back to him, three shirts in hand, he paused for a moment; Jim watched how his eyes raked over his figure appreciatively. “Fucking hell, darling.” He whistled, impressed. “You work out, don’t you?”

Jim’s cheeks reddened but he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. “A bit.”

“A bit?” Freddie laughed, handing him a shirt. “Talking of Greek gods, honey. Put this on.”

Jim pulled on the white t-shirt and laughed a little. “This is way too small.”

“Exactly!” Freddie grinned, crossing his arms as he watched him drag it into place. “Oh, look at that.”

The way the shirt sat on his body, taut to his muscles, looked undeniably good in the mirror; Jim couldn’t help but grin. “I was expecting you to put me in something a lot more outlandish than this, I must admit.”

“I can’t scare you away on the first date, can I?” He joked, smoothing his hand over Jim’s waist; Jim’s breath hitched in his throat a little as he held on a little too long, simply admiring him. “No, darling, I’m just going to put you in clothes that are so tight they’ll stick to you. Leather or jeans?”

“I don’t mind.” He chuckled.

“Mind!” Freddie insisted. “Which do you prefer?”

“I- well-” He stumbled, laughing, his cheeks turning red. “Jeans? You’re wearing leather, and I wouldn’t- I don’t know, would it make us clash?”

“Depends on if we’re doing his’n’hers, honey.” Freddie turned back to the racks of clothes and pulled out six separate pairs of jeans. “I’m eyeballing your size and I’m notoriously shit at it, so shout if you can’t breathe.”

Jim grinned again and kicked off the black ones he was already wearing. “These are a thirty-two thirty-two, if that helps.”

“You wear a thirty-two-inch waist?” Freddie grinned. “Jesus, you’ll get ribbed as much as I do.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, taking the jeans from him.

“I wear women’s jeans. I’m twenty-seven around the waist and twenty-nine on my inside leg, and unless I get them tailored, men’s jeans are a fucking nightmare.” He chuckled. “I’ve got a couple of handmade ones from D&G that they sent me with their last collection, and I think they’re the first pair of men’s jeans that have ever fit my fucking measurements.”

“That’s proper model measurements.” Jim grinned.

“I’m five foot seven, honey, there’s no way in hell I’d ever make it as a model.” He laughed. “Why do you think I wear heels? Anyway, darling, those look fucking perfect on you, but you’re going to have to take off your underwear.”

Jim looked up quickly from where he’d been fastening the buttons. “What the fuck, Freddie?”

“Who the fuck wears boxers when they’re going to a club?” Freddie arched a teasing eyebrow. “I wouldn’t be seen dead in them. Wear briefs or bikinis.”

“What do you wear?” Jim asked, before he suddenly realised the intensity of the question and blushed.

“How forward.” Freddie teased. “I’m wearing a jockstrap, honey, but you don’t strike me as a bottom, so I wouldn’t worry about it.” He grinned as he turned around, regarding the way Jim’s mouth fell open a little and his eyes slid down his back, the lithe curve of his waist and out to his ass. “Now, your shoes aren’t terrible, but I can give you some more if you’d like them.”

“What happens if I wreck this stuff?” He asked suddenly.

“I send it out with my dry cleaning or recharge it to Vogue. I told you, no one looks at the finances, and I’ve slept with the financial director so I wouldn’t give it a moment’s thought.” He grinned. “Oh, another t-shirt ruined by Freddie, what a surprise! I keep half the fashion houses in business with how quickly I tear through the clothes in here.”

“How the fuck do you stay on top of all of this?” Jim asked, taking a pair of white trainers from Freddie and pulling them on. “You send out dry cleaning every day?”

“I can’t wear something stained, can I? Besides, if I was in charge of my laundry, I’d fucking ruin it.” He started laughing suddenly. “When I first joined Vogue, my boss threatened to fire me if I kept dressing the way I did back then. She gave me all the combinations for these doors so I could dress myself out of here.” He spread his arms and gestured to the clothes around them. “Anyway, I have an assistant, darling, and he organises all that for me. Every morning I bring in my clothes- or the mornings I’m here, anyway, and the next morning my darling leaves me them all fresh and clean on the rail in my office. He’s a gem, he really is.”

“Is that Peter?” Jim asked.

“No, Phoebe’s the assistant to me in my team. He does my job when I don’t want to.” He grinned. “He organises shoots, sorts out the schedules with the models I want, gets me the right photographer, puts together the preliminary stuff, all that. Roger’s my PA- he helps Phoebe a lot because he loves doing the set design, but he also organises my life for me. Dry cleaning, he does my diary, he answers letters I don’t want to, he buys coffee, he’ll go out and grab pens and paints if I’m out- he’s wonderful, darling. He’s in a brilliant band, but they’re still just taking off, and he likes that I only make him work three days a week but I pay him full salary. I must call him a hundred times a day, though, you know, he never forgets a thing.”

Jim’s mouth was open as he listened to Freddie talk; he watched as he threaded through a thousand different black shirts to try and find the right one for himself. “What job did you start in?” He asked. “I thought you were the director of MoMA?”

“I was. Then Vogue contacted me and wanted to pay me a whole lot more.” He grinned. “I started doing what Phoebe’s doing, assistant creative director. It’s a great job, because you know that whoever’s above you is gonna kick the bucket eventually, and then you’ve got a guaranteed job with one of the biggest salaries in the industry. It’s an absolute bastard of a job to work, though, I try not to be so hard on Phoebe.” He shrugged. “My boss never came in, so I did her job for her, and then she screamed at me for doing it wrong. So I try and at least talk to Phoebe about my plan, you know, and then when he does something we’re on the same page.”

“This business is fucking bizarre.” Jim laughed, watching as Freddie stripped off his sweater and switched into a tight black top. “You look good.”

Freddie glanced at him in the mirror and winked. “Thanks, honey. I left my boots upstairs, though, so we’ll have to go back up.” He took Jim’s hand and pulled him up playfully. 

Freddie had so obviously checked him out that Jim couldn’t help but do the same, his eyes raking over his figure. “Your waist really is mental, isn’t it?”

“Oh, God, not you too!” Freddie laughed, walking backwards into the elevator. “Hey, I should’ve been a daughter, what can I say? It’s worked well for me, it’s been a turn on for many a man over the years.” 

Jim couldn’t help but rest the palm of his head on the small of Freddie’s back as he leaned over to press the button for the right floor, and all of a sudden Freddie felt himself blushing; he cursed himself internally and tossed his hair back, defiant though his cheeks had turned pink. “What’s your type?” He asked abruptly. “You know, so I don’t try and set you up with the wrong person.”

Soon Jim’s cheeks were as pink as Freddie’s. His mouth went dry and he swallowed a little, suddenly feeling shy in front of him again. “I mean-” He stammered, biting his lip. “I don’t know if I- I have a physical type, you know.”

“Bullshit.” Freddie grinned back at him. “We all do! I’m into a muscular man myself, you know, Burt Reynolds type. Those arms-” He kissed his fingers in an exaggerated chef’s kiss and then laughed. “You know, someone once told me I’d have far more luck with them if I ever step foot in a gym in my life, but I’m hopeless, darling. I think I’d take one look at all the veins in people’s forearms and I’d simply faint.”

Freddie’s eyes slid down his arms to where he held his old clothes in his hands, at the veins that stood out over the muscle there, just long enough to be obvious before he turned back to his desk and retrieved his shoes from the box behind it. “Come on, darling, tell all.”

Jim swallowed again and then licked his lips. “I prefer- I prefer guys that are a little more on the feminine side.” He told him, trying to match his game.

“Oh, do you?” Freddie sang playfully, arching an eyebrow at him. “I know what you mean, darling. All that smooth skin- you could just eat them up, couldn’t you?”

“Guys that look like you could pick them up.” Jim said, a little more confident. “I think I’m a legs guy, you know?”

“I absolutely do know.” Freddie flicked a switch on the wall and suddenly a bathroom lit up, which Freddie walked into; he picked up a lip balm from the counter and leaned into the mirror, admiring the way the lights made his cheekbones look.

Jim could’ve sworn he stuck his ass out just a little.

“Should I do anything to my face?” He asked Freddie, pressing the ends of his cold fingers to his cheeks. 

Freddie considered the question for a moment before he threw him a lip balm. “It’s aloe vera, don’t worry, I’m not threatening your masculinity.” He smirked. “Cracked lips are a turn off. This one tastes of raspberries.” He told him, his voice a little teasing. “It’s something of a signature.”

Jim applied it as Freddie leaned in to apply his mascara, blinking big, dark eyes back at himself as his lips split into a wide grin, the Cheshire cat, pleased with the figure that stood in the mirror before him. “Oh, to be pretty.” He sighed happily. “It’s just the most wondrous feeling in the world, darling, isn’t it?”


	6. Barracuda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension snaps.

Alcohol had always been his drug of choice.

He’d never been especially into drugs, not the handful of times he’d tried them at clubs of differing potencies; he’d snorted cocaine, smoked weed, popped a handful of different types of pills, and yet he never seemed to experience the high, the one that everyone spoke about. They either made him blackout, or else so tired that he would fall asleep in the taxi home.

But alcohol: that would make him feel strong.

He was a confident drunk, always had been, ever since he’d gotten drunk at his best friend’s birthday party and had kissed him, ending in them sneaking away to have sex in his bedroom in the attic of his parents’ home; a man he never would’ve touched had he been sober, too frightened to ruin an important friendship. Being drunk took the trembling away from his hands when he touched another man, made his hands sure on belt buckles, gave him the confidence to get on his knees for the prettiest man in the room. He was used to being the one that people had to shove into cabs, the messy one, the one that would laugh at the sight of his face smudged with God-knows-what in a way that would make him cringe come the morning; he was used to walking around a club as though he owned it, letting hands grab at whatever was desirable, whatever he wanted.

But he’d never been out with another confident drunk before.

Freddie Mercury would walk into a group of men and choose the one that held another in his arms just for the pleasure of tearing them apart; Freddie would stand in the middle of the floor, knowing damn well all the eyes in that room were on him, knowing that they wanted to eat him alive. He had allowed the tight shirt to be lost within fifteen minutes of his having his first drink, already drunk on the bottle of vodka they’d shared neat in the cab while they burst out laughing at the faces the other pulled as they tried not to spit it straight back out again. 

Freddie Mercury could be fucking feral when he wanted to be, and Jim couldn’t explain why that made him so desirable- he almost cried out his desire to be tamed by big hands, needing all the muscles he wanted to hold him down for long enough. 

But it wasn’t just that- he was bright, and Jim loved it. He seemed to sparkle, iridescent under the lights, and not simply from the glitter he’d swiped on his cheekbones while they’d been in the cab - he simply wouldn’t allow the Vogue executives to see him covered in glitter, he laughed, because he’d never hear the damn end of it - but because he was so full of life, so effervescent in his joy, radiant with the attention of so many men on his hips, on his chest, on his neck, and on his legs. He’d never met a man who was so proud of himself, so in love with himself, and so happy to be himself; he seemed to have all he ever wanted when arms wrapped around his waist, driving men to lust and beyond.

Freddie gasped when Jim gripped his shoulder, before he began to laugh; he wound both of his arms around Jim’s neck, drunk, bright, happy. “Isn’t it amazing?” He shouted, tossing his hair back from his face, pink glitter catching the strobe lights.

The lights made Jim feel as though he was in a stop motion picture; his whole life suddenly felt like a film, as though he was a secondary character in a movie all about Freddie Mercury, the craziest Vogue executive, a man who lived a life that two weeks ago he didn’t even know was possible, and was now somehow all caught up in-

And God, he wanted more.

He drained the drink in his hand and threw the glass to the side, feeling Freddie’s gasp when he used his freed hand to push him hard against the wall; he laughed again -  _ incandescent, he thought  _ \- and was immediately silenced by Jim’s lips.

He’d known all along that Freddie would be a good kisser. It wasn’t just good; Freddie was a fucking phenomenal kisser, and Jim couldn’t help but grin at how he immediately melted into his arms. He wound his arms around Jim’s neck, his hands running up the back of his neck and threading through the hair at the nape of his neck, before they disappeared over the planes of his back, drinking him in, adoring him, worshipping him. Jim’s hands were all over his waist, the waistband of his ridiculous shorts, up to his chest, feeling his body respond to every touch of his smooth skin, goosebumps left in his wake as Freddie deepened their kiss, licking hungrily into his mouth, hands dropping down to the hem of Jim’s shirt, the shirt that he’d chosen only hours earlier.

Jim broke the kiss for a moment to help him pull it off, heady on how much Freddie seemed to want him; Freddie kissed him again as soon as it was off, grabbing at whatever would yield to his touch, addicted to the feeling of the muscles beneath his skin; he moaned against his lips when Jim grabbed his ass, standing on his toes to kiss him deeper again and winding a leg around his waist-

They broke apart when someone grabbed Freddie’s hand from where it was seized on Jim’s shoulder, unbalancing him so that he fell into the man behind him.

“Come on, slut.” Paul joked, slapping Freddie’s ass and winking at Jim. “Sorry.” He mouthed at Jim, looking genuinely apologetic as he pulled Freddie away. “He’ll be at mine tonight!” He added quickly.

Jim panted for breath, aghast and yet rock hard in his jeans; he watched them leave for only a moment before he turned back to the crowd. It took only three minutes for him to have another man against the wall, though they didn’t feel quite right in his hands-

He shook the thoughts from his mind. If he couldn’t have Freddie that night, he sure as hell wouldn’t go home empty-handed.

* * *

Jim threw his work bag on the floor and collapsed onto the sofa seconds later, yawning loudly. “Who the fuck works on a Saturday?” He lamented to the empty room.

“Who the fuck wears muddy shoes on a floor that I cleaned today?” Freddie answered, making Jim jump and look up quickly. “No need to treat me like a ghost. I know I look like shit when I’m hungover, but Jesus.”

“I didn’t think you’d be here.” He explained quickly. “Weren’t you going on a date?”

Freddie shot him a wry smile and wiped paint off his hands. “Yeah, but why pay for the date when you got laid the day before, right? I got so phenomenally drunk that I let him fuck me before he’d even paid for one of my drinks.” He sighed dramatically and landed on the other sofa. “Rookie fucking error, darling, you’d think I’d never even done this before. How was work?”

“Dull as fuck. No one was in the office.” He yawned. “Samantha wasn’t even in, but this preorder for- this Hermes bag thing, and she said one of us had to be in to collect it, and I’m bottom of the pecking order, so it’s me.”

“God, you look so forlorn.” Freddie pouted. “What time did you go in? I didn’t get back here until midday.”

“Fucking six in the morning. They told us it’d be delivered between six and six, and it was delivered at fucking seven in the evening.” He whined. “On a Saturday! Anyway, I went to the gym for a couple of hours on the seventh floor and just took the mobile with me, and I took a long nap on work hours, because fuck them.” 

“That’s my man.” Freddie chuckled, though his energy seemed a little low, a little distracted.

Jim yawned again and then sat up. “Are you alright?” He asked.

“Alright?” Freddie replied. “Yes, darling, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You just seem-” He paused for a moment, and then added “tired” judiciously.

“I am.” He chuckled, cushioning his head on his hands. “No, darling, don’t take this the wrong way- I love living with you, don’t get me wrong, but- well, we were meant to be going to this restaurant that’s just opened on East 34th, they’ve been booked up for weeks but Roger managed to get me a reservation. And now- I guess I’m just a little disappointed.” He shrugged. “I was looking forward to having a nice evening out, and now I’m just at home again.”

“What’s the restaurant?” Jim asked curiously.

“It’s Japanese. I’ve been to Japan a couple of times with Vogue, darling, and the food is just phenomenal- I’ve been looking forward to trying this place because it’s supposed to be really authentic. But apparently he doesn’t like fish.” Freddie shook his head. “Like, how was I supposed to know? Anyway, apparently I’m insensitive as hell and only think about the things I want to do, so-” He trailed off. “You get the idea.”

“Have you still got the reservation open?” Jim asked keenly.

“Yeah, and I’m paying the late fucking cancel fee because he left it until two this afternoon to call me to tell me- can you believe it?” He spat bitterly as he looked at his watch. “It’s for an hour and a half’s time, half nine, but apparently letting them know at three was too late for them to open up the table again. This is why I have an assistant, darling, I fucking hate dealing with people.” He laughed humorlessly. 

“Well, why don’t you go with someone else?” He asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Have you got someone that wants to go on a date with me?” He asked bluntly, arching his right back.

“I mean, not a date, but we could go.” Jim said, afraid of sounding a little too eager. “I love Japanese, I mean, I’d like to go with you. Get to know you better outside of work.”

Freddie’s smile immediately lit up. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” He grinned. “It’ll be fun. I don’t feel like I saw too much of you last night.”

“Speaking of which, darling-” Freddie started.

Jim’s cheeks turned scarlet. “We need to go and get ready, don’t we?” He interrupted. “I mean, if the table is for half nine, we’ll need to set off pretty soon.”

Freddie’s grin had reappeared, bright and beautiful, though he regarded Jim with an arched eyebrow for a long moment. “We do.” He agreed eventually. “But-”

“What’s the dress code?” Jim interrupted again, trying his best to distract Freddie from mentioning it again.

Freddie started to laugh. “Black tie.” He chuckled. “Jim-”

“Let’s go then!” Jim laughed with Freddie, aware he was being a little ridiculous, but took his hand and dragged him up the stairs. “Can I borrow a tie?”

“Sure you can.” Freddie led him into his room, the first time Jim had ever seen inside; he was struck by the essence of Freddie that permeated the room, the fragrance that seemed to cling to every corner and surface, that came from an upturned bottle of cologne on his counter.

Freddie caught him looking at it and laughed. “I know, I know, I’m a mess. It smells good, though, right? It’s Givenchy.”

“Really good.” Jim agreed as Freddie opened another door, walking into a tiny little dressing room; the sight of it made Jim laugh.

“You found an apartment in New York that has a dressing room?” He asked, sitting on the footstool in the middle of the room. 

“Oh, this room was the bathroom.” He told him. “But when I’m the only person here, I don’t need an ensuite as well as the master bathroom, so I got rid of the ensuite and made it into a little dressing room for myself.”

Freddie opened a drawer and looked at his array of ties from different events, all wound up perfectly. “What colour do you want, darling?”

“Black.” He asked hopefully. “Have you got a thin one?”

“I’ve got almost everything.” Freddie grinned at him and took it out of the holder, handing it to him. “Can you do me a favour, dear?”

“Of course.” He stood up and went over to him, resting his hand lightly on Freddie’s waist; he remembered for a moment what it felt like to hold Freddie close and resisted the urge to kiss him again. “What do you need?”

“Can you reach that rail up there?” Freddie asked hopefully, looking up at him. “You’re like six foot, it’s designed for you to reach.”

“How do you reach it?” Jim asked with a laugh as he grabbed it and pulled it down. “There you go. And I’m six-one, so you were nearly spot on with that one.”

“Hey, my sizing eyes are getting better!” He grinned. “I’ve had one of these drawers fixed four times because I stand on it to reach up here.”

Jim watched as he selected a red shirt, watching the way the colour complimented the deep warmth of his skin. “Thoughts?”

“That colour looks incredible on you.” Jim said honestly. 

He burst into an even bigger smile. “Thanks!” He said happily; he hung it on the rail in the centre of the room and then walked back over to Jim, resting a hand on his thigh. “Jim, darling, we need to-”

“What colour trousers are you wearing?” He asked abruptly, his cheeks colouring again; he couldn’t even begin to try and explain the complexities of his feelings for the man in front of him, let alone put them into words for Freddie himself. 

“Motherfucker.” Freddie started to laugh. “Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Let’s just- let’s just go with it.” He said, impressed with how smooth his voice sounded. “Don’t talk about it.”

Jim was scared of putting it into words: he’d never had a proper lover, a boyfriend, a partner. He didn’t understand the intricacies of his own mind, his feelings, and he didn’t want to destroy them with his words; it was as though if he spoke of it, it would disappear, vanish, far beyond his reach, and he couldn’t bear the idea of losing it.

Freddie’s smirk was devilish as he stood back up. “Black, darling, classic.” He answered his earlier question, pulling a pair of starched, slim-fitting trousers from his cupboard and putting them up on the rail. “No tie, no jacket.”

“How black tie is black tie?” He asked. “Like just formal, or a proper suit?”

“Just formal, darling.” Freddie smiled, watching as Jim stood up quickly. He reappeared a moment later in a white shirt and a pair of fine check grey trousers, the shirt open and showing off his collarbones.

Jim stood in front of him and chuckled as Freddie came closer, sorting out his collar for him; Jim didn’t miss how he stood on his toes to get the best view. “Do you think I need the tie?” He asked.

“No, those trousers aren’t formal enough for a tie.” Freddie answered immediately. “They look amazing, though.”

“Thanks.” Jim grinned. “These were my job interview trousers.”

“I’d hire you.” Freddie laughed. “Well, I suppose I kind of did.”

* * *

Freddie was wine-drunk and happy, the clasp on the waist of his trousers loosened and his belt unbuckled, stuffed to the brim with his favourite food; he was laughing so hard at a ridiculous anecdote of Jim’s that he’d knocked his wine glass off the table and had to apologise to the waitress, red in the face, blushing and yet so ecstatic. They’d shared a dessert that had been decorated with hearts of raspberry compote, making Freddie laugh so hard he’d choked on his first mouthful-

He’d assured Jim he’d be leaving a heavy tip.

“I think this might be the best night of my life.” Freddie told him as Jim wound his own jacket around Freddie’s shoulders to fend off the cold night air; a moment later, a lit cigarette was pressed between his lips and he took it graciously. 

“I’m glad.” Jim was a little drunk himself, though he’d kept to drinking whiskey, knowing he could hold it better than the vodka he’d been drinking the night before; he used that as his reason that he wound his arm around Freddie’s waist, his skin buzzing with the feeling of holding him again, avenging the night before. 

They stumbled together down the street, and Freddie squeaked when Jim pulled him into the subway station. “Oh, God, I’m too drunk for trains!” Freddie laughed, shaking his head as Jim rifled through Freddie’s pockets to find his wallet, and his MetroCard. “Pervert!”

“Shut up!” Jim laughed, swiping it through the gate and shoving Freddie through it. “Push, fool!”

“Make me, bitch!” Freddie’s screech was disrupted by his laughter as he fell through the gate when Jim pushed it for him and quickly followed him through. “Where are we going?”

“Home!” Jim rolled his eyes and took his hand, threading their fingers together as they walked towards the platform. “What train is it?”

“I haven’t got a fucking clue.” Freddie grinned at him, daring him to talk back.

“You’re such a liar.” Jim grinned. “What train do we need?”

“I don’t know, darling!” He cast a glance over at Jim to look at the train that approached them and giggled. “You’ll have to look at the map, I can’t remember, it’s like my brain’s gone blank-”

As soon as the doors beeped to close, Freddie grabbed his hand. “This one!”

Jim nearly fell flat on his face but managed to follow Freddie into the train, though his shoelace got trapped in the door when it closed on him. “Shit!”

“Pull!” Freddie laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him towards the seats; Jim kicked his foot forward as firmly as he could and nearly fell straight into Freddie’s lap. He grinned and tugged Jim down beside him, throwing a leg over both of his; he cupped Jim’s cheek in his hand and kissed him.

Jim groaned and wound his arm around Freddie’s waist, pulling him closer as he kissed back; they kissed as though were starving, drowning in the passion that flowed between them. Freddie’s rings pressed into his skin as he deepened their kiss, letting Jim push him back against his seat; he felt crowded, dominated, his heart hammering under his skin as they kissed.

“God, you’re addictive.” Jim breathed heavily against his lips, barely able to stop kissing him for a moment. “Fucking hell-”

Freddie pulled back a little and rested his forehead against Jim’s, panting a little. “Tell me what we are.” He demanded, more forward.

“Friends.” Jim whispered. “We’re- we’re friends, we-”

Freddie shut him up with another kiss, locking his fingers in Jim’s hair and tugging until he groaned. “You’re going to make me work for it, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many scenes of them in dressing rooms and wardrobes do you think I can get in this fic

**Author's Note:**

> I love comments! I especially love people telling me they're smiling! I hope you are!
> 
> Xx
> 
> Quick reminder that you can always message me on tumblr if you have any comments/suggestions/requests you want written!


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